


A Lovely Love Affair

by roboticonography



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:11:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 16,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Tumblr prompt-fics in all flavours of Steve and Peggy. Permanently ongoing. Updated whenever I have time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is at last! Your one-stop shop for all my Tumblr prompt fics. It turns out that I am really, really bad at using consistent tags for my fic on my blog, so there may be more to come still, but this is a good start.
> 
> In some cases, the title of the story is the prompt I received; in other cases, I've included the full ask for your reference.
> 
> The stories range from happy to sad, domestic to horrific, which is why I haven't included a rating or any warnings. I'll warn for specific things in the notes to each story if I need to.
> 
> Each of these pieces stands apart from any other in its own universe.
> 
> Title from the Glenn Miller song "Our Love Affair."

The original inspiration for this story came from [this amazing post on Tumblr](http://ass-of-cas.tumblr.com/post/107860673284/can-you-just-imagine-peggy-putting-the-wrong):

> _Can you just imagine Peggy putting the wrong lipstick on for her date with Steve? And then he spends half of it passed out in the back of her car because of her wardrobe malfunction. #sweet dreams steve_

* * *

 

On the night of her first date with Steve, work contrives to keep Peggy at the office later than usual. Fortunately, Peggy always has a contingency plan.

 

She effects a quick-change in the women’s washroom, swapping her smart navy suit and sensible Oxfords for a striking flame-coloured gown and open-toed slingbacks. She slips out the side door, avoiding any awkward encounters in the hallway, and ducks into a cab.

 

In the back of the cab, she fixes up her hair, applies a few strategic dabs of eau de toilette, freshens her mascara, and slicks on a coat of lipstick. She rolls up her mackintosh and tucks it away in her bag, and voila! The transformation is so complete that the driver looks slightly startled as Peggy leans over to pay the fare.

Steve is already waiting for her outside the club, looking slightly flustered and completely adorable. He’s brought _flowers_ with him, which is impractical and darling and so very _Steve_. She’s never seen him in a suit before; just as the uniform did, it becomes him.

 

When he sees her, his entire face lights up, and _oh_ , she loves him so terribly that she forgets how to breathe for a moment.

 

Peggy has never been one for virtuous self-denial, and so she does exactly what she feels like doing in that instant; she snags Steve by his lapel and pulls him down for a kiss, deep and lingering. People around them are staring, and she doesn’t care.

 

“Hi,” he whispers, when they break apart at last. And then, gratifyingly: “Wow.”

 

“Yes.” She smiles, coaxing her hair back into place with deft fingers. “Quite.”

 

*

 

By the time they’re seated inside, it’s clear that something is very wrong.

Steve is having trouble following the thread of the conversation, and he keeps yawning, though he insists he isn’t tired. “I feel fine. My lips are numb, that’s all,” he tells her, the words running together.

 

And it’s then that Peggy realizes her error: in the back of the cab, she’d hastily grabbed the wrong tube of lipstick.

 

“Steve, darling…”

 

With no warning, he slumps against Peggy’s shoulder, his head lolling against the back of the booth. He isn’t quite insensate, but he’s definitely not fully conscious. She isn’t certain how long the effect will last, but she doesn’t think it’s a good idea for Steve to appear falling-down drunk in the middle of a crowded nightclub on the busiest evening of the week.

 

Peggy hails a passing waiter and convinces him to help her get Steve to his feet. With their assistance, Steve, graceless but affable, succeeds in stumbling out of the club. Peggy somehow manages to heave him into the back of a cab, where he promptly passes out entirely.

 

It’s then that Peggy realizes she does not know Steve’s home address.

 

She frisks Steve for his wallet – an awkward operation at the best of times, never mind on a first date – and finally locates his driver’s license and house keys. She gives his address to the driver, who watches uncertainly as she returns the wallet to Steve’s pocket.

 

“My friend’s a little under the weather,” says Peggy, in the voice and accent she normally reserves for her ‘blonde bombshell’ persona. She smiles winningly at the driver, who nods and pulls away from the curb.

 

It turns out that Steve lives farther away from the club than Peggy has budgeted for. She hopes she won’t have to take money from Steve – not that he would object, but the driver seems like he might.

 

By the time they arrive at his building, Steve is, mercifully, starting to come around. This does, however, does rather complicate matters when she thanks the cab driver, and Steve innocently inquires, “Why’re you talkin’ like that?”

 

The driver seems genuinely concerned about leaving Steve alone with her, and she winds up having to pay him a princely sum that she hopes will ensure his discretion.

With a herculean effort, she hauls Steve up the front steps and into the hallway, at which point his prodigious muscle memory manages the rest, propelling him unsteadily into his apartment.

 

Peggy barely has time to take in the details of the crowded bedsit before he faceplants onto the bed.

 

She switches on a nearby lamp, then kneels beside the bed to roll him onto his back. His pulse and breathing are regular, and his colour is good, which is a relief.

 

He blinks up at her, then glances around, confused.

 

“We’re at your apartment,” she tells him. “And I’m going to sleep here, because I haven’t enough money for a taxi home. All right?”

 

He takes some time to process this information, then observes, “We must’ve had a nice time.”

 

Peggy rolls her eyes. “Yes, darling, it was splendid. We really _must_ go again.” 

 

“That was some kiss,” he murmurs, with a sleepy smile, then closes his eyes.

 

“Oh, Steve,” she says fondly, ruffling his hair. “You have no idea.”


	2. Fight

The shower curtain was yanked aside with such force that it popped off a couple of its rings.

 

“I beg your pardon,” said Peggy, the anger in her face and voice overwritten by a veneer of devastating English courtesy. “But are you paying me a salary?”

 

“Am I – what?” Steve was trying to get a handle on what was going on while rinsing the soap out of his eyes at the same time.

 

Peggy held up a wadded ball of clothes that Steve vaguely recognized as the ones he’d left on the floor of the bedroom earlier. “Are you,” she continued, pausing for dramatic effect, “under the impression that I am a servant who is here to tidy up after you, and make the bed twenty times a day? Because if that’s the case, I really think I ought to be paid, don’t you?”

 

It really bugged him when she expressed her annoyance through sarcasm, rather than just having it out like a normal person. It seemed to be the way everyone in this country did things. He usually just let it slide, but today something about it was really getting under his skin.

 

“Just leave them until I pick them up on my own,” he suggested. “I’ll fix the bed when I get out.”

 

Peggy jammed the clothes-ball into the bathroom hamper and slammed it shut. “I don’t feel that _I_ should have to live in a _complete tip_ because _you_ are incapable of – ”

 

“I don’t know what that means!”

 

“Don’t shout at me because you can’t understand the King’s English! If you’re going to live here, it’s time you learned to speak it properly!”

 

“I understand English just fine! I’m shouting at you because you’re shouting at me!” Steve was acutely aware of how immature that sounded, even as he said it. He didn’t give her a chance to point that out, but continued on with, “And because you’re making me stand here and argue with you about leaving my shorts on the floor until all the hot water is used up!”

 

With perfect, exquisite composure, Peggy about-faced and walked out of the room. Steve heard the sound of the toilet chain being pulled, a second before the blast of icy water hit. Cursing, he cranked the taps closed and hopped out of the tub.

 

Not bothering with a towel, he stomped into the bedroom, where Peggy was engaged in straightening up the bed, looking pretty darn pleased with herself.

 

“That was a rotten trick,” he announced, pointing an accusing finger.

 

“You’re getting water all over the rug.”

 

“I don’t care! And hey, while we’re talking about what’s eating us, how about you stop using my razor on your legs?”

 

“Oh, I hardly think – ”

 

“No, you know what? If you’re gonna start on my bad habits, you ought to hear about a couple of your own!”

 

“Do tell,” said Peggy icily.

 

Steve racked his brain, trying to think of another example, but came up short. There really wasn’t anything that she did that bothered him enough to yell about. If anything, he loved her even more every time he discovered something about her that wasn’t completely perfect; it wasn’t a side of herself she was willing to share with just anyone.

 

Peggy waited, her expression slowly changing from furious to amused. “You look ridiculous,” she told him. “Standing there with your mouth hanging open.”

 

“I know.” Steve crossed his arms, his own anger dissipating. “It’s hard to be self-righteous when you’re naked.”

 

Peggy fetched a towel from the cupboard and draped it over his shoulders, using the corner to rub his hair dry. “I’m sorry for the ambush,” she said. “And the cold shower.”

 

“I’m sorry about the rug. And for being such a slob. I know it’s not your job to pick up after me.”

 

“I don’t mind all that much,” she admitted, passing the towel over his chest and down each of his arms in turn. “I was cross about work, but there wasn’t much to be done about it, and so I made it about you instead.”

 

She stepped closer, pressing into him. Never one to waste an opportunity, Steve leaned down to kiss her cheek, the sensitive underside of her jaw, her neck.

 

She tilted her head back, allowing him better access, and whispered, “I know how we can make things even.”

 

“How do you figure?”

 

She gave him a sly grin. “You can rumple the bed, and I’ll leave my clothes on the floor for you to pick up.”


	3. Spoons

“Steve.”

 

"Mm?"

 

"Turn over."

 

Silence. Blessed, beautiful silence.

 

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Steve. It wasn’t even that she didn’t love _living_ with Steve. He was - aside from an annoying tendency to drop his clothes wherever he happened to be when he decided to remove them - as considerate a housemate as one could wish for.

 

But the _snoring._

 

Neither of them could figure out what was causing it. He wasn’t old - at any rate, he wasn’t suffering the effects of age - and he certainly wasn’t out of shape. But whenever he slept on his back, he snored. She wondered whether it was simply a matter of habit, left over from the days when he’d been plagued by breathing problems.

 

Steve preferred sleeping on his back. In fact, sleep was far too mild a word to describe the comatose state into which he fell when he had the opportunity. It was almost as though he were storing it up, banking his sleep for nights when he wouldn’t get the chance.

 

Nothing Peggy did while he was in that state would rouse him. The best she could do was to poke and kick him until he turned onto his side.

 

Peggy had drifted most of the way back into blissful unconsciousness when it began anew - a soft but pervasive rumble, the mattress vibrating with it.

 

She opened her eyes and - sure enough - he was flat on his back again.

 

"Bloody hell." She elbowed him in the ribs. “ _Steve._ ”

 

He mumbled a string of unrelated consonants, then lifted a leg and dropped it over both of hers. A moment later, his hand flopped onto her breast.

 

"Not what I had in mind, darling," she remarked.

 

With a bit of effort, she managed to heave him onto his side, facing away from her. She tucked herself against his back and draped an arm over his narrow waist. The snoring, mercifully, abated.

 

Peggy snuggled closer, kissed his bare shoulder, and closed her eyes.


	4. Last Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "for REASONS everyone is stuck in the Red Skull's lair right after that moment when Steve and Peggy meet in the tunnels and look like they're about to jump each other's bones. Everyone is stuck for like 60 mins and they know it (maybe it's now part of the plan or something), so knowing all they can do is wait -- and ironically this is the most privacy they've ever had -- Steve and Peggy actually DO jump each other's bones."

The double doors click into place.

 

According to the plan, Steve is supposed to sit tight in the airlock chamber for the next hour.

 

At that time - also according to the plan - the door leading to the _Valkyrie_ will open, and Steve will sneak on board and disable the instrument panel.

 

Decidedly _not_ according to the plan, Peggy is in the airlock too.

 

She knew what she was supposed to do, of course. However, the man with the flamethrower, not being privy to the details of the arrangement, intruded at exactly the wrong moment, and Peggy simply had no choice.

 

Which means that now, for the next hour, she and Steve are stuck together in a very small, very warm, windowless chamber, from which there is no escape.

 

“Damn,” says Peggy. She knows better than to believe herself indispensible, but it certainly isn’t hubris to believe that they need her out there, far more than Steve needs her in here.

 

“Sorry,” says Steve, reflexively.

 

“Can’t be helped,” replies Peggy briskly. Looking him over, she notices a small rent in his sleeve, an ugly red slash welling up. “You’re hurt.”

 

Steve peeks at her through his lashes, looking sheepish. “It’s nothing.”

 

She takes hold of his arm, pulls a clean handkerchief out of her pocket and places it over the wound, tucking the ends into his torn sleeve.

 

“It’ll be gone in a minute,” he protests, a faint blush stealing over his cheeks. It’s a nice look on him; Peggy has an inveterate weakness for fair, freckled men.

 

“You make that sound so ordinary.”

 

He smiles, slow and easy.

 

He’s still smiling when Peggy cranes her neck to kiss him. He doesn’t shy away, as she expected he might; instead, he closes his eyes and leans down, politely, so that she doesn’t have to reach up quite so far. He stamps his smile onto her own mouth, and she smiles back, improbably, before beginning to kiss him in earnest. He’s inexperienced, but enthusiastic, and his lips are wonderfully soft.

 

Peggy cups her hand around the back of his neck. She wishes he weren’t wearing the helmet, so that she could touch his hair, the way she’s so often thought of doing.

 

Steve, burdened by no such encumbrance, threads his fingers through her hair – she isn’t certain how he managed to remove his gloves without her noticing, without stopping what he was doing, but in the grand scheme of things, she supposes it doesn’t matter. His short nails scratch her scalp lightly and she groans into his mouth.

 

Things happen quickly after that. Steve crowds her against the nearest wall, and she gets her leg up around his waist. She feels feverish with desire, shuddering uncontrollably, almost sick with it.

 

The battle suit has more layers than she expected.

 

She breaks a nail, exclaiming, “These sodding buckles!”

 

He chuckles - an incongruous sound in such a grey, inhospitable place - and guides her fingers.

 

She gets the access she needs, and slides a hand down the front of his trousers – he’s hard already, straining into her palm.

 

“I don’t – ” He’s breathing quickly. “I don’t have a rubber,” he tells her.

 

“I don’t care,” she growls, fierce with want. She’s tired of it, tired of this subtle dance, tired of wasting all their chances.

 

He puts her down, takes a step back, gives her a serious, almost mournful look. “We’re gonna make it out of this,” he tells her.

 

She can see that he means it, and she loves him for it. Even if she doesn’t believe it’s true.

 

She reaches up to stroke his cheek. “All right,” she says softly. “But we can… just this once. We can be a bit reckless.”

 

He bites his lip, obviously torn between what he knows is the responsible thing to do, and what his body yearns for.

 

She wishes that they could do this properly. She already knows what kind of lover he would be: gentle, conscientious, eager to learn, determined to please. She wishes that they were in a cottage by the sea, in a four-poster feather bed, with the windows open and the sun streaming in. She wishes that she had the time to undress him, slowly, and to let him return the favour, to kiss and caress him to the begging-point before taking him in and making him hers entirely.

 

But all they have is the here and now, and it will have to do.

 

She grabs the front of his jacket and pulls him towards her, kisses him urgently, presses her body against his.

 

He melts into the kiss, moaning helplessly, and says, “Okay. Okay.”

 

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but she manages to get her trousers down and her knees spread wide enough – it reminds her a bit of her first horse-riding lessons, a thought which nearly makes her laugh out loud – and then she’s braced against the wall, and he’s pushing into her with a surprising amount of restraint.

 

“Move,” she urges. “Now.”

 

He’s laughing, resting his face against her shoulder. “I just, I, need a second,” he tells her, the words muffled by the collar of her jacket. “Sorry. I don’t – it’s not funny, I don’t know why I’m…” He’s shaking a little.

 

And it’s then that she realizes: in spite of all the rumours, the Captain America swagger, the girls accosting him at every turn… he’s never actually done this before.

 

She unclasps the strap of his helmet and pushes it back off his head. She kisses his cheek, his jaw, strokes his sweat-damp hair. “I’ve waited so long for you, Steve,” she murmurs. “I need you. Please.”

 

He does start to move, then, his hands holding her by the hips, his face tucked against her neck, and there isn’t much else to do but hold on.

 

He doesn’t last long, but neither does she; it’s a mercy, given that they haven’t much time, and it wouldn’t do to meet the enemy in a state of undress. He leaves her with a couple of fairly visible love-bites, but given the circumstances, she figures she can probably pass them off as bruises.

 

Afterwards, he cradles her face in both hands and kisses her, slow and sweet, as if they have all the time in the world.

 

After setting herself to rights, she smartens him up: re-fastens all his buckles, and scrubs the lipstick off his cheeks and lips with the pad of her thumb. He watches her, quietly, his expression one of dazed wonder.

 

She thinks that he might be the most beautiful man she’s ever seen.

 

“All right,” she says at last, when she’s deemed them both presentable. “Ready?”

 

He nods, taking hold of her hand. “Ready.”

 

Neither of them lets go until the door opens.


	5. White

Despite having been careful with her clothing coupons throughout the war, Peggy had had to settle for something more practical than traditional white lace for her wedding day.

 

She’d briefly considered wearing her uniform - at least she and her groom would match? - but in the end, with a bit of creative seamstressing, she was able to spruce up a smart navy frock with white trim, and still had enough resources to procure a hat and a pair of gloves that were practically new, as well as a couple of other necessary items.

 

Steve’s uniform still gaped at the collar, but there hadn’t been much point in taking it in. He’d already gained back most of the weight he’d lost during his time in the ice, but not all of it; the difference wasn’t noticeable to most people, but then, Peggy wasn’t most people. Even before the engagement, she’d been making careful note of how quickly he tired (too quickly), how little he ate (too little), and how much and how well he was sleeping (too much and not enough). All of which had become infinitely easier to do now that the day had passed.

 

Their apartment in Brooklyn wasn’t large, by any means, but it would do for two in a pinch, and the closeness allowed Peggy to track the progress of Steve’s recovery. As well as having other, less pragmatic advantages.

 

"We could have waited," said Steve, late one night, as they lay beside each other. They’d just been discussing sending out the last of the thank-you notes for the gifts they’d received - though Peggy had mostly been drifting, lulled by the steady cadence of her husband’s voice.

 

Still half-asleep, she turned to face him. The bed was so new that the frame still gave off a faint odor of sawdust when one of them moved suddenly. (The scent had come to have very pleasant associations for precisely that reason; Peggy liked to joke that driving past the sawmill on the way home from the office never failed to put her in an amorous mood.)

 

"If you wanted the white dress, I mean. And the fancy party, and all. We could’ve saved up."

 

"I wanted _you_ ,” she told him, cuddling into his side. “The dress was immaterial. Besides,” she teased, “I wore white underneath.”

 

"Mm-hmm." He was very still, but she could hear his breathing quicken, ever so slightly.

 

“ _And_ lace.”

 

"Yep," he said mildly.

 

"Not very much, though."

 

"No, I suppose not."

 

Abandoning all pretense of coyness, she asked, “Are you very tired, darling?”

 

He laughed. “Never too tired for you,” he said, pulling her close.


	6. Drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "peggys conversation with steve at the bar if bucky was in the other room with the rest of the commandos"

Peggy had no trouble locating Captain Rogers and his new friends; all she needed to do was follow the sound of off-key singing and raucous laughter. Both of these immediately died out as she passed the table where Rogers’ group was seated, the captain himself notably absent. Barnes, impudent monkey that he was, had the nerve to wink at her as she walked by. Her reputation obviously had not preceded her, or he would know that she’d once walloped a recruit for the same offense.

 

She found Steve - _Captain Rogers_ \- alone at a table in the snug, scribbling in his notebook. He rose to attention when he spotted her. He cut a very dashing figure in his dress uniform; judging by the frequency with which young women seemed to be wandering by, she was not alone in this observation.

 

"Captain."

 

"Agent Carter."

 

She relayed Howard’s message about the equipment, then added, “Your squad seems to be in cracking order. Is there any reason you’re not celebrating with them?”

 

He shrugged sheepishly. “My hearing is a lot more sensitive than it used to be. I’m still learning to filter things out. I needed a minute.”

 

"I thought perhaps it was because you couldn’t carry a tune."

 

"Doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone else," he remarked, with a small smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"

 

Pleased by his taking the initiative to ask, Peggy sat down in the chair opposite. “Possibly you _can,_  and certainly you _may_.”

 

"Are we having a drink or a grammar lesson?"

 

"Whiskey and soda," said Peggy, austerely.

 

Steve’s nerve seemed to evaporate in the time it took the bartender to make their drinks. When he returned to the table, he said little, toying with his mug of beer and avoiding her gaze.

 

"You must be thrilled to have your friend back."

 

"It’s… yeah," he said, somewhat dispiritedly. "He hasn’t really been himself."

 

"He’s been through a lot. You need to give him time."

 

"It isn’t just that, it’s - the last time we saw each other was before… Cap. I don’t think he likes it much."

 

"Ah."

 

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you think I’m different? I mean, do you think my personality is different?”

 

"Yes."

 

Surprise and disappointment flashed across his face - it obviously wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting.

 

"It’s not a bad thing," she added. "I think you’re… more sure of yourself. Calm. Confident. You finally have an exterior that matches the person you’ve always believed yourself to be inside, and it shows."

 

"Yeah," said Steve, slowly. "I think you’re right."

 

"I’m always right," said Peggy, and sipped her drink.


	7. Driven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "what would have happened if Peggy was the one driving the convertible (w/o the colonel ofcourse) when Steve was chasing the valkyrie?"

"You’re really good at this!" Steve had to shout to be heard over the combined noise of the car’s engines and the turbines of the _Valkyrie_ up ahead.

 

"I drove an ambulance in London!" Peggy shouted back, feeling slightly ludicrous. For God’s sake, she was doing her damnedest to speed him into the waiting arms of Death herself, and he was _making small talk_.

 

Only Steve Rogers.

 

He stood up on the passenger seat beside her. “Keep it steady,” he called.

 

She could feel his eyes on her and she wanted to look back, wanted to say something encouraging or reassuring or… damn it all, she wanted him to know how she really felt. But it was taking nearly every ounce of force and concentration she could muster to control the car.

 

"Steve!"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"I love you!" she shouted - just as the Valkyrie’s thrusters fired, the wind whipping the words out of her mouth before they could carry to Steve’s ear.

 

"What?"

 

She waved him away - there wasn’t time. “Go! Just go!”

 

He went.

 

Clinging to the undercarriage of the soaring _Valkyrie_ , he looked so small and fragile that she might have wept.

 

She didn’t, of course.

 

*

 

"Steve, is that you, are you all right?" Peggy asked, practically shoving Morita out of the way.

 

He told her the good news first, and then the bad: Schmidt was dead, but the controls were damaged.

 

He wouldn’t be coming home.

 

"Peggy."

 

"I’m here," she said softly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Colonel Phillips give the signal to the others. Everyone stepped out of the control room, giving her the privacy to say goodbye.

 

Peggy _hated_ goodbyes.

 

"Earlier in the car, you said…"

 

She swallowed hard, forced steadiness into her voice. He didn’t need to hear her cry. “Yes? You heard?”

 

"Yeah. And… me too."

 

She closed her eyes. “Say it. Please.”

 

"I love you, Peggy."

 

"I love you, Steve."

 

She imagined she could hear a smile in his voice. “You owe me a dance.”

 

"Come home and collect it, then."

 

"Oh, I’m gonna." He said it with such conviction that for a second, she actually believed he might. "And you’ll wear that red dress. Won’t you?"

 

"All right."

 

"And we’ll have the band play something slow, I wouldn’t want to step on your -" 

 

Static.


	8. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "Howard found the Tesseract and Hydra found Steve. Zodiac is the name of the operation Hydra has set up, trying to recreate the super soldier serum for Cap's DNA. When Peggy recovered the serum she also recovered the project files..."

Peggy held her breath as she entered the sub-basement.

 

As her eyes adjusted to the near-blackness, she looked around, and saw a chamber of horrors: rows upon rows of bodies, in varying states of decomposition, suspended in tubes of a gelatinous substance.

 

At last, she located the tube she was looking for: subject zero. The origin of Hydra’s variation on the super-serum.

 

Through the open door, she could hear the distant sound of gunfire being exchanged. She perused the control panel and took her best guess at the buttons. An awful gurgling, sucking sound seemed to indicate that she was on the right track; however, as the fluid drained out of the tube, the naked body inside slumped to the bottom, lifeless.

 

She considered using her pistol on the tube, but she couldn’t risk something going wrong. Instead, she adopted a fighting stance and punched the reinforced glass as hard as she could - once, twice, again and again in rapid succession. A crack started to form, and she stepped back and delivered a kick that shattered the tube.

 

A faint groan alerted her to the fact that Subject Zero had gained some level of consciousness. She cleared away the shards of glass as best she could, and helped him to climb down off the platform. It wasn’t easy; his skin was still slippery with suspension gel, and he didn’t seem to have full control over his long limbs. She looked around for something to cover him with, but there was nothing.

 

"Put your arm around me," she instructed, hoisting him to his feet. He obeyed, darkening the fabric of her coat with sticky fluid. "Come on."

 

He blinked at her uncomprehendingly, and she reached up and scrubbed the mess out of his eyes with her sleeve.

 

"It’s all right," she told him. "I’m going to get you out of here. But I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a rush."

 

"You’re late," he said hoarsely.

 

A laugh bubbled up and caught her by surprise. “I came as quickly as I could,” she told him.


	9. Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by grumpyhedgehog: "Peggy and Pre-Serum Steve on the jeep ride back to barracks after handed over the flag to the drill sergeant."

Peggy twisted in her seat to face Private Rogers. “Rather clever of you,” she told him.

 

He smiled, spots of colour high on his prominent cheekbones. “I thought so, yeah.”

 

He was still panting from the run, she noticed. That wasn’t a good sign. She’d read his file: a laundry list of medical conditions, any one of which on its own should have kept him out of the army. But Dr. Erskine had overwritten the recruiting doctor’s concerns, and signed off on all of the relevant paperwork.

 

"It won’t do," she told him. "We’ll have to make the challenge more difficult for the next batch."

 

"What, you wanted to put your feet up?"

 

He was a cheeky little blighter. And then there was the fact that he’d tried to enlist so many times. For a man who’d risked so much to be allowed to fight, he certainly didn’t seem like the bloodthirsty type. She wondered if he was running away from something.

 

"Is that how you address a superior, Rogers?"

 

His smile faded. “No, ma’am.”

 

Peggy turned and faced front, resolved not to speak to him again. There was no point in becoming friendly with the recruits, she reminded herself. Whether Project Rebirth was a success or not, they would all be heading overseas in a few weeks - while she’d still be here, whistle in one hand, stopwatch in the other, barking orders.

 

Not that she wasn’t grateful for the chance; Dr. Erskine had told her, more than once, that if the serum was a success, they would eventually be looking for female candidates too - and hinted that she would be at the top of his list.

 


	10. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "Instead of growing to a ripe old age, Peggy becomes the Winter Soldier or some similar variant if you want to keep Bucky as the WS and have her be something else. ;)"

It’s a few weeks after the attack on New York that Natasha arrives on his doorstep with a bottle of Stolichnaya and an envelope. 

 

Steve eyes the bottle of Stoli and makes an inquisitive noise.

 

"It’s not for you," she says, then slides under his arm and into the tiny apartment without waiting for an invitation.

 

In the kitchen, she pours him a tumbler-full anyway, and he tips it down his throat, relishing the brief burn in his veins before his super-efficient super-cells do their work.

 

The envelope contains photos. Natasha turns them over onto the kitchen counter, one by one, laying them out in stacks like a game of solitaire. Steve can see that their edges are worn, soft.

 

In each photo is the same man: navy peacoat, scuffed boots, dark hair unkempt in a way that makes him seem feral. He wears a mask, but Steve recognizes the angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose.

 

"Bucky," he says, his fingers rubbing at one of the photos, as though he expects it to have the texture of fabric or skin.

 

Natasha says a few syllables in Russian. “That’s who he was when I knew him. The best English translation would be… Winter Soldier.”

 

"Who is he now?"

 

She shrugs fluidly.

 

In the next picture, the Winter Soldier has acquired a mate: a lithe, fearsome creature in a long leather coat, her body in perfect line with the sniper rifle she holds. There’s a small part of Steve that is thankful he’s not alone, at least. ”What do they call that one?” he asks.

 

Natasha speaks, but it’s meaningless, the sounds trickling through his brain like sand in a sieve.

 

In the next picture, her face: liquid dark eyes, porcelain skin, and those perfect rose-petal lips. He always imagined her mouth would taste like candy, even though he knew enough (even then) to know that lipstick was just wax and pigment.

 

Natasha is watching him, waiting for a reaction.

 

Finally, he nods.


	11. Coming Home

"What are you watching?"

Steve bolted upright - he hadn’t even realized he was asleep. ”Huh? Oh. Not sure.” He’d been dreaming about dinosaurs, and sure enough, there were dinosaurs on the TV screen.

Peggy, standing behind the couch, ruffled his hair. “It’s half-past three,” she informed him. “Go to bed.”

"What about you?"

She climbed over the back of the couch and sank down next to him with a sigh, still wearing her SHIELD-issue windbreaker over her jeans and t-shirt. She appeared to be almost completely covered in a fine grey dust, and was sporting a painful-looking bruise across one cheek, but she had the distinct air of self-satisfaction that generally came with the successful completion of a mission.

"I want a shower," she said - imperiously, as though she expected the shower to get up and come to her. "And something to eat."

Limbs still heavy with sleep, Steve dropped his arm around her shoulders, pressed a kiss into her hair. “You smell like smoke,” he observed, nosing against the side of her neck. “What’ve you been up to?”

"Oh, one thing and another," said Peggy vaguely. "Did you make dinner?"

"Yeah." Steve was currently on leave, having signed off on a mission of his own a few days before. He’d arrived home, eaten everything in sight, then collapsed in bed for a full fourteen hours. For once, he was able to see the wisdom in SHIELD’s policy against domestic partners working together. ”And then I ate it at a decent hour like a normal person.”

She tweaked his ear sharply. “Cheeky.”

"Meatloaf. In the fridge."

She made an approving noise, cuddling into his shoulder. “That’s more like it.”  
Neither of them moved to get up.

"Darling…"

"Okay." Steve lifted his arms over his head, trying to stretch away his lingering tiredness. "I’ll warm it up. Do you want anything to drink?"

"A cup of tea would be -" she yawned prodigiously - "hmm, lovely. Thank you."

He put the kettle on to boil, then came back to the couch to check on her. She was curled up in the same spot where Steve had been; her eyes were closed. The television was still blaring, dinosaurs rampaging across the screen.

He picked up the remote and turned the volume most of the way down. "You still want to eat?"

She made an unintelligible noise, burrowing deeper into the couch cushions.

"Agent Rogers?"

"Half a moment," she murmured, pulling the blanket over herself.

Dutifully, he went and made the tea: Red Rose, milk, no sugar.

Peggy was sound asleep by the time he returned.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from nacholeadinglady: "What do you think would Peggy's fantasy be if Ivchenko had hypnotized her as well?"

Peggy isn’t quite sure how she got there, but she’s walking into the Stork Club on a Saturday night. She’s never been there before, but she’s seen pictures of how it looks inside, and it looks just as she’d imagined it.

 

She’s wearing a new dress - and that’s odd, too, because the only dress she’s bought in the past year has been gold, and this one is red. The colour of poppies, to be exact, perfectly matched to her nails and lipstick.

 

She’s always looked well in red.

 

She she sees a man standing at the bar: tall blond, dress uniform, captain’s bars on his shoulder. She knows it can’t _possibly_ be him - she’s had this happen too many times already, and she starts searching for the tell-tale detail that will dispel the illusion. The broad back and trim waist are too close for comfort, as is the long hand resting on the bar. She needs to see his face, to see for herself that it isn’t really -

 

And then he turns and _oh God_.

 

It is. _Really._

 

She pelts across the dance floor, heedless of the couples who have to step hastily aside to make way for her, and launches herself into Steve’s arms.

 

He catches her effortlessly, his whole upper body folding in around her, as if all he wants is to shelter her from the world. She tucks her face against the side of his neck, and _oh_ , he smells _just_ as he used to: carbolic soap and aftershave and a touch of pomade, clean smells, _Steve_ smells.

 

“Hi there,” he says, laughing softly.

 

She presses a kiss into the underside of his jaw, another just near his ear, before finally managing to land her mouth on his, not caring who might be watching. It occurs to her that this kind of reunion must be a common sight by now, and probably no one is even taking any notice.

 

“Steve, darling!”

 

She feels a bit seasick, and everything wavers for a moment. She feels hollow inside, hot and cold all at once, and her head is reeling, from the -

 

\- from the champagne, yes, of course, she’s usually so careful not to drink to excess, but of course one’s wedding night must be an exception, and there were a lot of toasts. It certainly doesn’t help that _her husband_ \- such an unprepossessing term for such a delightful object - could drain a dozen bottles and never feel the effects, and spent the evening ensuring her glass never went empty.

 

She squeals again as Steve hoists her up, white crinoline frothing about her legs. “Is this really necessary? You’re making me dizzy.”

 

“It’s tradition,” he insists, a stubborn set to his jaw. She reaches up to trace it, starting at the blade of his cheekbone, running her fingertips down to his chin.

 

He places her on the bed, so gently, as though he’s afraid she might break, and everything suddenly rights itself.

 

“Okay?” he asks, brows drawing together in concern.

 

“I love you so terribly much,” she tells him. “I’ve never been so happy.”

 

Without warning, she’s crying: whole and heartfelt sobs, like a dam burst, she isn’t sure why, it hurts, everything _hurts_ , it -

 

\- there is some pain, still, of course, but it’s only to be expected. She’s never been a religious woman, but she can see how a person might come to view the agony of childbirth as a form of divine punishment. Mostly, though, she’s just exhausted.

 

She doesn’t remember any of it, but she’s been told that’s quite normal.

 

The nurse nestles the pink-blanketed bundle in Peggy’s limp arms. She’s an early arrival: tiny, so red in the face she’s almost purple, with a downy cap of white-blond hair and razor-sharp little fingernails. Sarah.

 

Steve’s seen her already, through the nursery window, but he’s still overjoyed to meet her in person, and when she clutches his pinky finger with one tiny hand, Peggy can’t quite believe how perfectly everything all turned out.

 

When she glances down at herself, instead of a hospital gown, she’s wearing a navy blazer, one she hasn’t owned in years. This strikes Peggy as vaguely perplexing, though she can’t quite marshal the energy to worry about it now. She wonders whether she’s having some sort of delayed reaction to the cocktail of medications she was given in the delivery room.

 

Steve squeezes her shoulder reassuringly and says, “It’s okay, honey. You’re here with us. You’re safe. You just need to focus.”


	13. Ballroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from scotiabock: "Peggy accidentally spying on Steve being taught to dance by the Howling Commandos, just in case"

It wasn’t unusual to hear music coming from the cluster of huts that served as the soldiers’ quarters. One or another of them invariably had a radio, and an urge to make the entire neighbourhood aware of his musical preferences.

 

Slightly more irregular, however, were the noises emerging from the hut simultaneously with the music – shouts, wolf-whistles, applause – and it was this phenomenon that prompted Peggy to investigate.

 

She peeked in the door of the hut, and saw something quite unexpected: an area had been cleared in the middle of the room, and Steve was being ushered across it in the arms of Sergeant Dugan. They were attempting what looked to be a basic Lindy Hop, while other fellows sat on the nearby beds, observing.

 

“You could let me lead, you know,” said Steve, with an expression that spoke of long suffering.

 

“Only way I know how to do it,” replied Dugan, imperturbably. “Stop counting.”

 

“How else am I supposed to keep time?”

 

“Count, but don’t look like you’re counting,” Jones suggested from the sidelines.

 

“Et voila,” said Dernier. “L’élan, c’est trouvé!”

 

Barnes, lounging on someone’s cot with his boots on the blanket, called out, “Leave some room for the Holy Ghost, huh, fellas?”

 

The rest of the men erupted into cheers and laughter, and even Steve smiled a little.

 

The two men made quite a spectacle, revolving around the room with a surprising amount of grace. Steve was always light on his feet, of course, but Dugan wasn’t making too bad of a showing either.

 

Steve asked, “Does it matter if she’s right-handed or left-handed?”

 

“Only if you’re driving her home after,” said Dugan, with a wink. More laughter from the peanut gallery.

 

Steve rolled his eyes and said, “You make one classy dame, Dum Dum.”

 

The song ended, an announcer coming on to shill soap in strident tones.

 

Dugan tipped his bowler gallantly at Steve. “Okay, boys, whose turn is it next?”

 

Before she could stop herself, Peggy called out, “Mine, I believe.”

 

In unison, seven heads swivelled towards the doorway. All of them were conspicuously blank-faced, except for Steve, who looked like he’d been caught breaking windows.

 

Peggy walked briskly over to the group, Dugan stepping aside to make way for her. The music coming from the radio now was dreamy and mellow. She stood opposite Steve and raised her arms, gesturing for him to hold her by the waist. He obliged, and she let him lead her around the makeshift dance floor, very carefully and correctly, with plenty of room for any and all spiritual entities.

 

“There goes my turn, I guess,” said Morita, feigning disappointment.

 

As if by some unspoken mutual agreement, each of the fellows suddenly remembered somewhere else he needed to be, and drifted outside. Steve paused in his steps, looking at her uncertainly.

 

“Don’t stop now, you’re just getting the knack,” she said, with an encouraging smile. “But I don’t imagine the Holy Ghost needs quite so much room, do you?”

 

“As long as you don’t mind.” His hand slid to the small of her back, tightening the circle of his arm around her.

 

She leaned into him, the lightest press of her body against his. “Not at all. You’ll need to learn how to hold a woman properly, and it didn’t look as though you were having much luck with Sergeant Dugan.”

 

“He isn’t exactly my type,” said Steve, with a grin.

 

Peggy let her head fall against Steve’s shoulder and closed her eyes, letting herself float along on gentle waves of music. She knew it was skirting the bounds of propriety; however, if the murmur of voices outside was any indication, they weren’t likely to be disturbed, at least for a few minutes.


	14. Motivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from tehnakki: the push up contest.

There were minimum requirements for not getting kicked out of the project. There were the basic ones, like showing up on time, wearing the uniform correctly, following orders; Steve didn’t have any trouble with those.

 

And then there were the fitness requirements. He wasn’t doing so well there.

 

Steve struggled the most with push-ups. He needed to be able to do a minimum of 30 in a row without stopping to rest, or Peggy would be forced to dismiss him from the program.

 

She knew that she shouldn’t be biased, but she admired Steve for how hard he worked in training. So she coached him, after hours - not cheating, of course, just a bit of extra tutoring to help him improve his form. She was careful not to give the impression that she was doing him any favours, and in fact went out of her way to stress that she could _not_ give him any special consideration when it came time to run the tests.

 

One evening in particular, there was no improvement. She could tell that exhaustion was chipping away at Steve’s resolve. 

 

"Right," she said at last. "Turnabout is fair play." She handed him the stopwatch. Steve watched, perplexed, as she got down on all fours, then raised up on her elbows, her body straight as a plank. "See how many I can do in three minutes."

 

When she was through, Peggy had barely broken a sweat. Steve, on the other hand, was flushed and perspiring heavily.

 

"Seventy-three," he said, slightly awed.

 

Peggy made a dismissive noise. “Not my best. Your turn.”

 

Steve beat his record by four repetitions.

 

Peggy let him have another three-minute break. This time, for a challenge, she did the push-ups one-handed. Truth be told, she might have been showing off just a tiny bit. It had been a long time since she’d met a man - any man - who was neither put off nor intimidated by her strength.

 

"Hundred and seven," he reported.

 

"Surely not!"

 

"I may not be able to handle a one-handed push-up, but I can _count_ ,” retorted Steve.

 

Peggy fixed him with a stern look and said, “Watch the mouth, soldier.”

 

He got no more breaks after that.


	15. Agency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from teamcapsicle: "an au with director peggy and skinny agent steve?"

After the war, Steve dutifully trades his uniform in for a dark suit and overcoat, his dog tags for a badge.

 

It isn’t that he loves intelligence work, not exactly - though it comes more naturally to him than some might think. But work is hard to find, and it’s interesting, keeps his mind sharp.

 

And the truth is, he would have followed Peggy Carter into the fires of hell if she’d asked him to.

 

He knows better than to think that she might notice him in anything other than a professional capacity, and he tells himself that ought to be enough. Which it almost is. He lives for her praise, so sparingly given, and for the warmth of her smile, and for the occasional drink in her office at the end of a long day.

 

It’s during one of these drinks sessions that he takes the critical misstep.

 

He’s tired, and it’s blowing snow outside, and the whiskey is hitting him harder than usual. She asks him about his plans for the weekend and he says, “Probably go to the pictures.”

 

"Oho. Who’s the lucky girl?"

 

He shakes his head, mumbles something vague about liking to hear the dialogue.

 

"You’ve never necked in the cinema?" She’s leaning back in her chair, loose-limbed, her eyes glittering with mischief. "You haven’t lived. You really must try it sometime."

 

"I might, if anyone wanted to try it with me." It comes out angrier than he expected, more bitter - but he feels like she’s toying with him, and he doesn’t think it’s very sporting of her. "Sorry if that was rude," he adds.

 

"Not at all. But I think you underestimate your charms."

 

"Oh yeah?"

 

"Take the compliment, Rogers," she says briskly, "don’t fish."

 

His cheeks are stinging. “No, ma’am.”

 

She shifts, leaning into the beam of yellow light from the overhead fixture. He’s transfixed by the shadowy sweep of her lashes along the blade of her cheekbone. “Your right partner hasn’t come along?” she asks softly.

 

"I don’t suppose so."

 

"How will you know her when she does appear, do you think?" She’s close enough that he can smell the whiskey, antiseptic, mingling with the heady florals of her perfume.

 

He wipes his damp palms on his trousers and says, “If you’re through teasing me, boss, I’ll go.”

 

"And if I’m not through?" There’s a sharpness to her candy-red smile.

 

He drains his glass and stands up, feeling the room sway a little. “I’m going either way.”

 

"Steve, wait." She stands too, and plucks at his sleeve.

 

The last of his reserve is long gone, melted by the whiskey. He shakes her off, asserting, “It’s fine if you don’t want me. But you don’t have to treat it like - like a joke.”

 

"Don’t want you?" repeats Peggy, incredulously. As though the very idea of _anyone_ wanting him is ludicrous.

 

Steve jams his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got feelings, you know, same as anyone.”

 

"You’re such an idiot," she says slowly.

 

And then she kisses him.


	16. The Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompts: trying to get pregnant, talking about having kids

"You know, we could," Steve suggests, quite unexpectedly.

 

"What’s this _we_ business?” asks Peggy. She examines her reflection in the vanity mirror, slicks on some lipstick in her usual precise manner, and smacks her lips. “Are you now, miraculously, possessed of a uterus?”

 

"Well, no, but I’d be doing some of the work."

 

She levels a devastating glance at him over her shoulder. “If you call that _work_ ,” she retorts, “you haven’t been doing it properly.” Turning back to the mirror, she begins detaching the curlers from her hair. “Get dressed. We’re going to be late.”

 

Steve half-heartedly picks up his dress socks, but stays seated on the bed, watching her. He loves this - loves every step of the intricate process of Peggy layering on her armour.

 

"I’d like to," he says, more directly. "Would you like to?"

 

"Yes," she says, without missing a beat, and the sudden ardour in her voice catches him off-guard. "I would."

 

"We could be a little bit late," he suggests.

 

She catches his eye in the mirror, and grins.


	17. Pinup

Steve hadn’t been on tour long before word got around that he could draw.

 

One of the saucier chorus girls, Angie, cornered him at the back of the tour bus late one night and insisted on a portrait. She wanted to send it to her sweetheart, she told him. Steve obliged with a quick sketch—amber curls, an impish grin.

 

Two nights later, one of the other girls, Trixie, approached him backstage after the show. She handed him a dog-eared postcard—a Vargas girl. “Could you draw me like this?” she asked shyly. She had the greenest eyes Steve had ever seen.

 

Steve, who was always up for a challenge, drew Trixie sitting at a makeup table with curlers in her hair, wearing a peignoir, peering coquettishly into a mirror.

 

The next day, the other girls all demanded to be given the same treatment. Steve had each of them pose in turn; it gave him something to do when he wasn’t on stage, in training, or studying his field manual. And, if he suspected at times that there was something more afoot than just girlish vanity, he never let on.

 

*

 

Late one night, unable to sleep, Steve started sketching idly on the fly of a book. As it happened, it was a library book—now, sadly, almost a year overdue and probably not likely to be returned to the Brooklyn Public Library any time soon. Drawing in it was hardly compounding the offense at this point, he figured. Besides, this way he wasn’t wasting paper.

 

Out of sheer force of habit, his doodle took the form of yet another pin-up girl, this one modestly attired in a bathing suit. He gave her luminous eyes and thick dark curls pinned in victory rolls, painted lips and dimples in her cheeks; he told himself any resemblance was mere coincidence, but the more detail he put in to the particulars of face and figure, the more obvious it became. He knew he ought to erase the damn thing, but it was some of his nicest work, and he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

 

Finally, he wrote “Katherine” under the picture, hoping that little misdirection would be enough. Exasperated with his own lack of conviction, he snapped the book shut and stowed it in his foot locker.

 

Which was where it remained, forgotten, for almost six months, until he had the very great misfortune to lend it to Agent Carter.

 

By the time the book came back to him, via Bucky, the page with the drawing had been carefully clipped out and removed. At first, Steve couldn’t be sure who had taken it and when, and though he had his suspicions, he sure as hell wasn’t about to _ask_.

 

However, on the book’s interior cover, he found a note, in swift, decisive handwriting: _You have a superb eye for detail. However, I would appreciate it if future masterworks were to be submitted for personal approval._

 

It was signed _Katherine_.


	18. Kissing in the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written a while before Agent Carter premiered, so I was guessing at Peggy's life after the war.

The umbrella had endured approximately 30 seconds of London weather before turning itself inside out.

 

Peggy was thoroughly disappointed in the wretched object, and would have left it in a rubbish bin, except that it belonged to her sister-in-law, and she rather thought it was best not to burn that bridge too quickly if she could avoid it.

 

She stood on the platform, waiting for a train that was already nine minutes late, resisting the impulse to kick and strike the people who jostled her out of the way. Their rudeness was inexcusable: Peggy wasn’t _really_ eight months pregnant—the padded girdle was a convenient cover that allowed her to pass unremarked through most public places—but she appeared to be. What was more, she was suffering from the accompanying backache and swollen feet, and now, thanks to her lack of a suitable umbrella, she was also soaked to the skin.

 

She observed her fellow travellers on the platform. It was good always to be alert, and whenever she was stuck waiting like this, Peggy tested herself by making a game of it—glancing at an individual for a count of three, then looking away to see what particulars of the person’s appearance she could immediately recall.

 

One fellow, across the tracks on the platform opposite, gave her pause. She dismissed it at first; London was a populous city, and there were a lot of men who were tall, and broad-shouldered, and fair. His dress was perfectly ordinary—slacks, loafers, a tan gabardine windbreaker. But something made her look again, and then she couldn’t help but notice the way he stood (straight-backed and sure-footed, like a soldier she had once known) or the way his hair parted (falling over his forehead in a perfect, silken arc).

 

She wished he would lift his head, so that she could see his face and reassure herself, once and for all, that Captain Steven Rogers was _not_ standing on a train platform, a mere stone’s throw away, obliviously writing in a small black leather book.

 

Her game completely forgotten, she stared at the stranger, willing him with all her might to look up, to move, something, _anything_ to break the spell. But he remained fixed as he was, wholly focused on his task.

 

Her train appeared at the corner and began to slow its approach to the station. Peggy couldn’t stand it any longer; she had to know. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she drew a deep breath and bawled, in a voice like a foghorn, “Steve Rogers!”

 

The man in the tan windbreaker glanced up at the sound (as did many others in the station). He turned and looked over his shoulder, as if trying to locate the source of the shout—

 

Which was when the train pulled in, blocking Peggy’s view of the platform opposite.

 

As people packed themselves onto the already-crowded train, Peggy stood, immobilized by her indecision. She had a package to deliver and a mission to fulfill, and her employers wouldn’t thank her for any further delay.

 

But she had to know. Had to see with her own eyes, even if those same eyes had deceived her.

 

She stepped back and planted her feet, became a rock in the stream of commuters flowing past her.

 

The train pulled away, and she looked across to the other platform expectantly, her pulse pounding in her throat—

 

The platform was empty.

 

 _You’re a fool, Peggy Carter_ , she chided herself. _And what’s worse, now you’re a fool who’s missed her train_.

 

The station was deserted now, and she walked over to one of the empty benches and sat down. The rain was lashing the exterior of the platform, and she jumped when she felt something cold hit the back of her hand—the roof was leaking.

 

There was nothing for it now but to wait, and make her excuses to her superiors. She had no idea what she was going to tell them; a lie was out of the question, but the truth was impossible to describe without sounding as though she was off her head.

 

“Peggy?”

 

She turned towards the exit, and saw the young man in the tan windbreaker racing up the stairs towards her. She heard his voice, saw his face, and felt her entire body seize. Her heart swelled in the cavern of her chest, until she felt as though it was liable to split her in two. It was impossible, but it was him, it was _him_ , and now she was on her feet and running towards him, and now he was scooping her up, lifting her into his arms, crushing her close. He was solid, and warm, and she could feel him breathing hot against her neck. Overhead, water was trickling down on them in a steady stream, running down the back of her neck and dampening her collar, but she couldn’t bear to move even an inch.

 

“Steve,” she kept saying, over and over, as though she’d lost the use of every other word in her vocabulary. “ _Steve_. My God.” She didn’t know how it could be possible, and for a terrible moment she wondered whether she’d actually gone completely mad.

 

He was laughing, squeezing her tightly enough that she gasped. Belatedly, she remembered the package strapped to her middle, which was now digging uncomfortably into her ribcage. He seemed to notice it at about the same moment, and put her down, very carefully.

 

Before she could explain, he said, “I should say congratulations.”

 

“You shouldn’t say anything of the sort,” she said brusquely, with a dismissive wave. “It’s not at all what it looks like.”

 

He glanced down at the protrusion, looking rather dubious. “So you’re… smuggling a basketball?”

 

“It doesn’t matter! How the devil are you here? How the devil are you _alive_?”

 

“It’s a long story.”

 

Peggy could hear her train approaching. “Damn,” she exclaimed. “There’s no time—I’m already late, I can’t—” Her limbs were leaden, her brain uncharacteristically slow. He couldn’t come with her—he’d be bound to make her more conspicuous, and she needed her wits about her for the drop. “Where are you staying?”

 

“I can’t tell you.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

He looked pained. “I can’t tell you that either.”

 

“I won’t let you go,” she said angrily, clutching at his sleeve. “Not again.”

 

“Give me a time and place.” He had to shout now to be heard over the combined noise of the storm and the oncoming train. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

 

He dug in his pockets and came up with the black notebook and a pencil stub. The pages of the book were filled with odd little notations, and sketches of buildings—the Old Bailey, what was left of the Houses of Parliament, and a few she didn’t immediately recognize.

 

Hands shaking slightly, she scribbled the address of a pub near her brother’s house. 9 p.m. _Don’t be late!_ she added, underlining it twice, before handing the notebook back.

 

“Peggy!” he said urgently, and then something else, a question that was drowned out by the screech of the train’s brakes.

 

“Pardon?” she yelled back.

 

He grabbed her arm, pulled her close, and kissed her. She had the most awful sense of _déjà vu_ ; the wind in her hair, the sound of a car moving in a tunnel, and Steve’s mouth pressed against hers. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to commit everything about the moment to memory: the scent of his skin, the softness of his hair under her fingers, the way he tucked her body against his to shelter her from the damp.

 

For a brief moment, she considered abandoning her rendezvous entirely—but the assignment was an important one, with lives in the balance, and she’d already made it a tight timeline. She knew Steve, of all people, would understand.

 

Craning her neck, she put her lips next to his ear and said, “Don’t make me come looking for you.”

 

Steve nodded, and made a show of tucking the notebook carefully into his jacket pocket, zipping the jacket closed for extra security. He smiled, an impossibly beautiful smile, and in spite of everything Peggy found herself smiling back.

 

And then she was on the train, watching him get smaller in the distance, until at last he disappeared entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to continue this one eventually...


	19. Happy Birthday, Steve (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a 4th of July prompt from ellidfics: "birthday during the war, in Europe."

There were so many requests for Captain America to make public appearances that serious thought was given to suiting up an actor to play the role.

It was a good idea, on the surface, but it was deemed too high of a security risk – there was no telling what ideas someone might get about taking on the Sentinel of Liberty, and putting an untrained civilian in that position seemed irresponsible.

There was only one Cap, and he had bigger things to do than shake hands and wave for the cameras. And that, as they say, was that.

However, when Rome was liberated a month before Independence Day, someone near the top of the chain of command apparently felt it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. The American flag was to be flown over the Piazza Venezia on July 4, with all the attendant pomp and circumstance; Steve’s attendance was requested, as was that of Colonel Phillips.

“I’m gonna let you jump on this one for me, Carter,” said Colonel Phillips, flapping a hand in Peggy’s general direction. “Your Italian is better than mine.”

“Bullshit,” said Peggy succinctly, letting the statement hang in the air before adding, “sir.”

“Yeah, your bullshit is better than mine too,” he retorted. “It’s the accent. Roll up your flaps and go pack.”

Which was how Peggy came to be standing at attention on a very hot day, wearing a _very_ hot woolen uniform and a hairstyle she absolutely loathed (but which was crucial to ensuring her hat stayed in place), saluting a flag that wasn’t even her own.

Peggy had always despised hot weather. She could feel the sweat pooling at the backs of her knees, in the hollow of her throat, at the small of her back. She felt damp and sticky everywhere that bare skin was touching cloth. The air was a solid, oppressive mass, pushing on her from all sides.

It was the first time she’d seen Steve in weeks, and it didn’t look as though she’d be able to get close enough even to say hello.

He was looking enviably fresh, and displayed an almost saintly patience (appropriate to the venue, one supposed) with the various officials who stepped forward to congratulate him, as though he personally had been solely responsible for the liberation of the city.

Not only had Steve not been anywhere near the place when the Americans entered Rome, he had been critical of the fact that the decision had allowed the German Tenth Army to get away. He’d called it grandstanding – an assessment with which Peggy was in complete agreement.

And now, here he was, politely shaking hands with General Clark and the Secretary of War.

Peggy, not being of any particular note, was fortunately spared this ordeal. She couldn’t help but feel a bit smug when the wind picked up, and several of the men, including Mr. Stimson, had to go chasing after their hats.

She happened to catch Steve’s eye at the exact moment it happened, and they exchanged smiles.

The ceremony concluded, and as the crowd dispersed, Steve managed to break free of the pack, making his way towards her. She was suddenly conscious of the full force of the sun, beating down on her; she felt sunburnt, light-headed.

“Oh my, it’s the guest of honour.”

He had the grace not to roll his eyes, but his disdain was palpable.

More genuinely, she added, “It’s nice to see you, Steve.”

“You too. Your hair’s different,” he observed. Before she had time to form a word of complaint on the subject, he added, “It’s nice, I like it,” in such an earnest tone that it really left no room for protest.

She recalled, then, that it was his birthday. She regretted that she hadn’t realized it sooner, hadn’t thought to bring even so much as a card.

“I’m aiming to be gone before they can rope me into anything else,” he confessed. “Do you have anywhere you need to be?”

“Not just now. You must let me buy you a drink,” she suggested, “in honour of the day.”

“I didn’t think you’d celebrate the Fourth.” Cheekily, he added, “Didn’t the English take kind of a beating in that little skirmish?”

“Oh, I’m not one to hold a grudge,” said Peggy, quite untruthfully. “But that wasn’t the event I was proposing to celebrate.”

“You remembered,” said Steve, delighted.

“Of course.” Peggy slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, and let him lead her out of the square to the cobblestone street. “It’s hard to forget a date of birth as ridiculous as yours.”


	20. Happy Birthday, Steve (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on three 4th of July prompts:
> 
> dmorgandorffer: "Ok, but how did Tony talk you into this??"  
> anon 1: "Peggy is so grateful to Sam Wilson and Pepper Potts. She doesn't know how she could have pulled off planning for Steve's birthday without them and that's saying quite a deal."  
> anon 2: "Never, ever, EVER let Tony Stark find out you're planning a party for Steve's birthday."

When Tony asked to be included in the planning of Steve’s birthday party, Peggy, who was normally so practical about that sort of thing, should have known what was to come.

At the time, though, she thought it was lovely that the two of them finally seemed to be making inroads. She thought it was a good thing to encourage. And Tony, for all his shortcomings, knew how to entertain in style.

“I don’t think he’d like a fuss,” said Peggy, “But I think a surprise party at the Tower might be fun. Drinks, cake and candles, a few close friends… low key.”

“He and Steve didn’t really hit it off - ”

“ _Low. Key_ ,” Peggy repeated, with greater emphasis on the individual words. “Meaning, small and simple. Do you think you can manage it?”

“No problem,” said Tony. “Small. Simple. Got it.”  
  


*

  
It turned out that Tony and Peggy had rather different baselines for small and simple - a fact which became apparent when Tony BCCd her on a group email invitation. 

The email promised an open bar, a DJ, a pyrotechnics display, a chocolate fountain, and a menu littered with words Peggy didn’t recognize. She didn’t think Steve would either.

“I said _small_.” Peggy was not, in this bright new century, accustomed to having her suggestions disregarded. “It’s far too much. Who did you invite?”

Tony’s ominous reply was, “I’ll send you the list.”

The list turned out to include half of SHIELD, several veterans’ organizations, the student body of Steven G. Rogers Elementary School, and at least fifty people Peggy had never heard of. And that wasn’t counting the Asgardians, a delegation of whom were apparently also planning to attend.

She tried calling Tony’s cell phone, his home phone, and his office. When she couldn’t seem to connect to a live human, she called Pepper. It turned out that Pepper was in Dubai, and the call had woken her up in the middle of the night. She was, nonetheless, sympathetic to Peggy’s concerns.

“Can you talk some sense into him? Steve is going to hate this.”

Pepper sighed. “Did I ever tell you about the big bunny?”

*

Peggy had to suspend party damage control that evening. Tuesday night was pizza-and-Netflix night, in perpetuity, because Steve was nothing if not a creature of habit.

“Did you hear anything about a big party at Tony’s this weekend?” Steve inquired, as he scrolled through Recommendations for Peggy. “A few people at work asked me if they could bring guests. What do I look like, Miss Manners?”

Peggy crammed half a slice of pizza into her mouth, to avoid saying a very unladylike word, and endeavoured to look perplexed at the notion that Steve had any manners at all.

“We’re not going to that, are we?” he asked, plaintively.

“No. Actually, I’ve got an assignment this weekend,” she added, deploying her prearranged alibi. “I’m flying out on Friday. I should be back Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

“Oh yeah? That’s too bad.”

“Why is that?”

“No reason.” Steve turned his attention back to the television. “Why do you have so many crime dramas on here?”

*

It was Sam Wilson who ultimately provided the solution.

Peggy had engaged Sam to keep Steve busy on the day, and to see to it that he made it to the party on time. He planned to take Steve to a parade, and then to a barbecue, before finding an excuse to stop in at Stark Tower.

However, at a quarter past the appointed hour, the guest of honour still had not arrived.

Then Peggy received a text:

_At Natasha’s. There’s beer and cake. Birthday boy seems happy._

Well, thought Peggy, at least he was having fun.

_If you bring Barton and Thor we can officially call this a party._

Peggy took Pepper aside and explained the situation. Pepper offered the use of her car and driver for the evening, and sent her assistant to track down Thor and Clint.

Peggy glanced over at Tony, who was telling a story to a crowd of decidedly unimpressed veterans. “You don’t think he’ll mind?”

“I’ll talk to him. Tell Steve happy birthday from me?”

“Of course.”

*

By the time they arrived, Steve, Sam, and Natasha had carried every chair in Natasha’s apartment up the stairs to the roof. There was a cooler full of beer, and a grocery store cake, decorated with the stars and stripes and adorned with sparklers. Everyone was in jeans and t-shirts; Peggy, in a party dress and full evening face, was slightly overdressed, but fortunately not ridiculously so.

“Hey!” Steve exclaimed. “I thought you were working!” His astonishment seemed genuine; it was gratifying that one part of her plan had come off without a hitch, at least. “Wow. You look dynamite.”

“Surprise, darling.”

“Did you plan all this?”

Before she could reply, Sam said, “She did. And now you can stop complaining that she’s not here.” 

“I wouldn’t say _complaining_ ,” Steve interjected, frowning. 

Peggy flashed Sam a grateful smile. “It was a team effort, actually,” she corrected.

“I was a little worried.” Steve dropped an arm around Peggy’s shoulders. “I thought that blowout at Stark Tower might be for me.”

“Mm,” said Peggy evasively, squeezing his waist. “Perish the thought.”

After dutifully blowing out the sparklers on his cake, Steve cracked open the gift Thor had brought: a flask of Asgardian liquor. Within the hour, Steve was waxing effervescent. Peggy, who had never seen him drunk before, was highly amused by this turn of events - particularly when her normally-reserved boyfriend started taking dares to perform feats of athleticism. It was ridiculous and somewhat juvenile, but at least she didn’t have to worry about him getting hurt.

Despite being halfway across town, they were able to see the Stark Tower fireworks. They were magnificent; even Thor, who normally observed these kinds of goings-on with a sort of benevolent forbearance, seemed impressed. Clint and Natasha speculated about whether or not Tony had secured the appropriate noise and safety permits.

Just after one in the morning, Tony and Pepper arrived with a tray of food and a few bottles of wine from the party. “It’s still going on,” Pepper explained, “but we wanted to at least stop by.”

Peggy took Tony aside to speak to him, but he didn’t seem at all upset by the derailing of his plans. “I still got to throw a kickass Fourth of July. Pretty sure the city is going to fine me for the fireworks, but it was worth it.”

“He enjoyed them.”

“Good job, team.” Tony held out his hand for a fist-bump. “Same time next year?”

Peggy glanced over at Steve. He was seated on a brickwork ledge, a beer in his hand and a speckle of blue frosting on his cheek, laughing uproariously at a story Sam was telling.

“We’ll see,” she said.


	22. The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt: how do you think modern steggy spend their valentine's day? can be FWNL or just any modern setting you choose.

Every year, they played the game.

 

It was one of their few concessions to the holiday; Steve and Peggy had agreed that things like flowers and chocolates were far nicer if given at random, when inspiration was high, rather than as a simple function of the calendar. But they played the game, first thing in the morning, to start the day.

 

It was Peggy’s turn. She paused thoughtfully before declaring, “Rome. You were in your dress uniform, and you’d had a shave and a haircut.” She closed her eyes and pictured him, beautiful and golden in the hot Mediterranean sun.

 

“It was my birthday,” Steve added helpfully. “You bought me a drink.”

 

“Hmm, yes.”

 

He nodded his approval. “Yeah. That’s a good one.”

 

“Your turn.” She rolled onto her side; her bare leg brushed his, the fine hair on his calves as soft as down.

 

“Okay, I got one. That time in London. It was raining.”

 

“It was raining? You can do better than that, surely!”

 

He toyed with the hem of her oversized t-shirt as he spoke. “It was November, it was raining, and I didn’t have an umbrella, because I wasn’t used to being in a city where it rains nine months of the year. And you knew I didn’t have an umbrella, and you waited for me and made me share yours. Even though there was no chance of me catching a cold.”

 

Peggy could almost taste the crisp autumn air on her tongue, mingled with the rising damp. It was a large tartan umbrella; the friend to whom its colours belonged had abandoned it in Peggy’s tiny bed-sit.

 

“Yes, I remember. You said you weren’t made of sugar and you weren’t going to melt – ”

 

“And you said, ‘Are you sure, Captain? Because I think you’re rather sweet.’”

 

Peggy made a noise of protest. “Is that supposed to be my accent?”

 

He shrugged unrepentantly. “You go now.”

 

“All right. The first time I saw you here, alive and well and wearing that ridiculous outfit.”

 

Steve was quiet. His hand moved over the small of her back in a slow, circular pattern, warming her skin through the thin cotton.

 

“Darling?”

 

“Yeah.” He sounded a bit remote. “Me too.”

 

She pulled him closer, tucking her head against his chest. She breathed him in: soap and aftershave, and beneath that, the scent of his skin.

 

“Every time I saw you,” he said softly. “Since the first time we met.”

 

“That’s cheating,” she murmured. “Surely you weren’t thinking you loved me _every_ time I told you off? That time I shot at you?”

 

“Yeah, then especially. And every moment since then. And right now.”

 

She hid her grin against his chest. “Sap.”

 

“Does that mean I win?”

 

“Not yet,” she informed him, pushing into him, rolling them both until he lay on his back. “The game isn’t over,” she told him, sitting up to straddle him.

 

He ran his hands up her thighs and over her hips, holding her against him. “No?”

 

In lieu of a reply, she tugged the t-shirt up over her head before leaning down to kiss him.

 

The game was never over.


	23. Old college buddies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt: I was wondering if we'll ever see Peggy's friend Charlotte from college again? She seemed really sweet. I know that would be hard in the Flames Verse to do, since Peggy is so different from a college girl, but it would be really fun to see them interact again, especially with Steve there!

“Oh, sure, your old buddy  _Pepper_ ,” said Charlotte, despairingly. “Jesus wept, Pegs. You could’ve warned me.”

 

“I don’t understand.” They’d run into Pepper while waiting in line to get into a bar Charlotte had read about in her New York guidebook. Peggy had introduced them, and Pepper, who was there meeting friends of her own, had guided them through the bar’s VIP entrance.

 

“I’m interviewing with her tomorrow morning! _That’s_ the job I’m here for!”

 

Peggy hadn’t considered that. Still, she hardly thought it merited the amateur dramatics.

 

“And she saw me out drinking!” Charlotte put her head down on the table and groaned. “I’m so dead.”

 

“You’ve seen her out drinking too,” said Peggy, quite reasonably. “And now you’ll have something you can use to start the conversation when you meet her again.”

 

“How do you know her, anyhow?”

 

There was no way of getting around it now. “Her husband introduced us.”

 

“Her husband,  _Tony Fucking Stark_?”

 

“To give him his full name, yes.”

 

“How do you know  _him_?!” Charlotte clutched at Peggy’s arm, peering intently into her face. “Be real with me. Are you a secret zillionaire?”

 

“Hardly.” Resigned that the conversation had officially gone off the rails, Peggy said, “He’s a professional associate of Steve’s, as it happens.” She was not about to get into the details of how she’d known Tony’s father, but Charlotte was going to have to learn the truth about Steve eventually anyhow.

 

“I thought Steve was an actor.”

 

“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely truthful there. He’s, er… well, not to put too fine a point on it, but he’s Captain America.”

 

Charlotte gaped. “ _What_. The.  _Fuck_.”

 

“Shall we have another drink?”

 

“This is  _Steve_  we’re talking about here, right? Steve, that you just moved in with? Steve, who came to visit while you were at school? Steve who drinks the milk and puts the empty carton back in the fridge? Steve, whose underwear is on your bathroom floor right now?”

 

Peggy made a face. “I’m sorry. I did tell him I was having a guest over.”

 

“What the  _actual_  fuck!” Charlotte’s voice had risen exponentially, both in pitch and volume.

 

“I couldn’t tell you before.” Peggy kept her own voice low, in an attempt to lead by example. “But I’ve told you now. All right?”

 

“Okay.”

 

But Peggy could tell Charlotte was hurt. And so, in spite of the fact that they’d just spent half an hour waiting to get into this awful place, and another half an hour to get their twenty-five-dollar drinks, she said, “Would you like to meet him?”

 

“Captain America?”

 

“Steve. My Steve. He should be home by now.”

 

“For real?”

 

“Of course.” Peggy knocked back her drink, and gestured for Charlotte to do the same. “Come on.”

 

*

 

An hour later, they were walking up the stairs to Peggy’s place again. Charlotte was, honestly, a little relieved; one drink at that place was all she could really afford.

 

The whole way home, she’d expected her friend to let her in on the joke—that she wasn’t _really_ living with Captain America, that she’d never even met Tony Stark. But the moment never came, even when Peggy unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

 

And there he was.

 

Charlotte had only seen him from the back that night in the Fox and Trout, but this was plainly the same guy. Just sitting on the couch, channel surfing, like it was a basic day. Barefoot, wearing track pants and a tight white t-shirt. All tall, and muscley, and handsome, and... real.

 

Captain fucking America.

 

“Holy _shit_.”

 

Charlotte barely more than breathed it, but he glanced over at her, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way that suggested he’d heard. She blushed furiously, and covered by leaning down to unzip her boots.

 

As Charlotte was maneuvering out of her footwear, Peggy breezed past her. “Hello, darling.”

 

“Hiya.” He stood up, clicking off the TV. “You’re back early.”

 

“Yes, it was a bit of a zoo.” She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss before beckoning Charlotte over. “I want you to meet my friend. Charlotte, this is Steve.”

 

Charlotte opened her mouth, but couldn’t seem to make any sounds come out.

 

Peggy was still on the move, headed towards the kitchen. “I’m going to make us a gin and tonic that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. Steve?”

 

“No thanks,” said Steve. He had a firm handshake and an amazing smile, and he used both of them on Charlotte, who felt herself go a little weak in the knees. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“You’re Captain America,” Charlotte blurted out.

 

“Nah,” he said easily. “I just play him on TV.”

 

“That wasn’t funny the first time you said it, either,” called Peggy from the kitchen.

 

Charlotte giggled involuntarily.

 

Peggy reappeared with a drink in each hand. “Don’t encourage him,” she said sternly, handing one to Charlotte. The three of them sat down.

 

“So,” said Steve, “Peggy says you’re thinking about moving to New York?”

 

Charlotte’s nervousness about the job interview with Stark Industries momentarily overtook her nervousness about meeting a real life superhero, and before she knew it, she was telling Steve the whole story.


	24. Girl talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt: Peggy and Angie, things you said while you were drunk

“Absolutely not.” Peggy collapses onto the narrow sofa, one hand over her mouth. “I’ll be ill if I eat another bite.”

 

“You sure?” Angie flops down onto the sofa, crossways, her feet next to Peggy’s head. “It’s chocolate.” She peels back the wax paper, squeezes off a piece of the cake between two fingers, and pops it into her mouth; a little stale, but otherwise not bad. One of the few advantages of working at the automat.

 

“With all the sweets you eat, you’re lucky you don’t get spots,” says Peggy, mournfully, which is how Angie knows she’s three sheets to the wind.

 

“What’re you talking about?” Angie can’t help slurring just a little, but she doesn’t think Peggy’s noticed. “I never saw you with a pimple in your whole life.”

 

“You haven’t known me my whole life,” Peggy points out.

 

“I’m sure if a pimple ever dared to show up on your face, you’d just glare at it until it left on its own.”

 

“I’ll have you know I get them all the time.” Peggy drapes her arm over her eyes, taking on the attitude of an antique statue in blissful repose. “Just not always on my face.”

 

Angie snorts loudly. “I get ‘em when I’m flying the red flag.”

 

“Oh, delightful.”

 

“I never told anyone that before,” she muses, taking another bite.

 

“Congratulations,” says Peggy dryly.

 

Angie nudges her with a stockinged foot. “You tell me something.”

 

“All right. Your feet could do with a wash.”

 

She squawks in outrage. “No! Something about you. Something you never told another living soul.”

 

Peggy doesn’t answer – but then, Angie didn’t really expect her to. For all that they’ve gotten close since they started living together, Peggy’s always been something of a closed book. Part of it’s the work, Angie knows that. But part of it is just Peggy, the way she’s made. It’s like pulling teeth to get even the most basic facts about her life.

 

Angie polishes off the last of the cake, and is brushing the crumbs off her skirt when she hears Peggy say, “I don’t think I ever loved Fred.”

 

“Who’s Fred?”

 

“A man I was engaged to.”

 

“Jeez Louise, Peg, I never knew you were engaged!”

 

Peggy gives a defeated shrug – as if getting engaged is unavoidable, the sort of thing that happens to a girl if she stands still too long.

 

“What happened to him?”

 

“He married another girl. And I met someone else, someone I did love.”

 

“How’d you know?”

 

“I think it was that… when I imagined my life after the war, I pictured him being a part of it. And I should have told him that, but I never did.”

 

“I’m sorry, Peg.”

 

“So am I,” she says, low and soft.

 

Angie pats her leg sympathetically.

 

“You’ve eaten my share of the cake, haven’t you?”

 

“You said you didn’t want any.”

 

“I said nothing of the sort,” says Peggy indignantly. “When have you ever known me to turn down chocolate cake?”

 

“I think there might still be blueberry pie.”

 

Peggy heaves herself up with a dramatic sigh. “Any port in a storm, I suppose.”


	25. All-nighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt: things you said at 1 a.m. + things you said over the phone + things you said with no space between us 
> 
> FWNL-verse.

_Are you up?_

 

It isn’t until after he’s sent the text that he thinks to look at the clock. It’s after one in the morning.

 

Even so, a reply comes through a few minutes later: _Is something the matter?_

 

_All good here,_ he assures her, though his hands are still shaking so hard he can barely type. _Just can’t sleep._

 

His phone illuminates, her name across the top of the screen. He hits talk and says, “Hey, hope I didn’t wake you,” in a voice that comes out relatively steady.

 

“I’ve just put the kettle on,” Peggy replies—meaning, yes, it _is_ in fact his fault that she’s awake and out of bed, but she’s not about to belabour the point.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Never mind that.” Her no-nonsense tone is exactly what he needs to quiet the jangling noise in his head. He closes his eyes and pictures her, standing in her tidy little kitchen at Stark Tower: one of those brightly-coloured flannel pajama sets she likes so much, robe and slippers, hair wrapped in a kerchief. “What’s wrong?”

 

_I had a bad dream_ , he wants to say, but even that’s not exactly right. He doesn’t remember what he dreamed – just the hot, sick terror of falling awake.

 

“Nothing.” He woke her up, and now he can’t even talk to her. He feels like the world’s biggest jerk. “Just wanted to know you were there.”

 

“I’m here, Steve,” she says warmly. “Right where you left me.”

 

He can’t think of what to say.

 

“Darling, shall I come and see you?”

 

He knows she would, too—in the middle of the night, in a city that’s vastly different from the one she remembers. Without a second thought, if she thought he needed her.

 

“No, no. You’re already in your PJs, right? Tell me you’re wearing the ones with the cupcakes on them.”

 

He can hear her smile. “They were a gift. And they’re very comfortable.”

 

“Just knowing that makes me feel better already.”

 

“I’ll let you come and have tea, but only if you bring biscuits.” It’s the kind of ridiculous thing that only Peggy can get away with saying, because she invests it with such decorum. “I think chocolate would be best, don’t you?”

 

“Might take me a little while.”

 

“That’s fine.” The kettle is whistling in the background. “I’ll make yours when you get here.”

 

*

 

It’s drizzling outside, but traffic is sparse, and Steve manages some judicious speeding despite the slick roads. He stops at a convenience store and gets two kinds of cookies: chocolate-filled, and chocolate-covered.

 

At the Tower, he finds Peggy in the kitchen, filling the kettle from the tap. “A little bird told me you were in the lift,” she says, without looking up, and places the kettle on the glass-top range.

 

He drops the convenience store bag on the counter and moves to stand behind her, settling his arm across her shoulders. She leans into him. She doesn’t have her hair in a kerchief, after all; no pins or curlers either, just soft, fragrant waves, crowned by a halo of sleep-fuzz. He rests his cheek against the top of her head and breathes for what seems like a long time.

 

She hums, and kisses his wrist. “Thank you, my darling.”

 

“What for?”

 

“For driving over in the rain because I fancied a chocolate biscuit.”

 

He laughs softly, and feels the knot of anxiety in his chest start to unravel.

 

Putting on an over-the-top French accent, she inquires, “Will you take your tea in the _salon_ , _monsieur_? Or the _boudoir_?”

 

He squeezes her and presses a loud kiss to her cheek, so grateful that they get to have this – that she can let her guard down and share the silly, playful side of herself with him. That she can keep the conversation going when he can’t.

 

“Yes, bed for me as well, I think,” she continues, in her own voice, as though he’s been keeping up his part in the conversation like a normal person.

 

And so it’s tea for two in bed, and two chocolate cookies each – which is how he knows Peggy must be genuinely worried about him, since she’s not normally on board with anything that might result in crumbs in the sheets.

 

It’s strange to see the rain hitting the window, but not hear it, because of the Tower’s soundproofing. When Steve says he misses the sound, JARVIS chimes in and offers to pipe in some soothing white noise; Peggy thanks him, declines, and tells him to stop eavesdropping on her personal conversations.

 

When the AI signs off with a beep, she raises an eyebrow at Steve and purrs, “Alone at last.”

 

In the darkness, Peggy slides her leg across both of his and wraps an arm around his waist, protective and possessive all at once. They kiss for a while, slow and sweet, her fingers threaded through his hair; Steve feels suddenly, profoundly sleepy, in a way he hasn’t in days. He tries to apologize, but she tells him to be quiet and go to sleep.

 

“You’ll wake me – ” She gives an enormous yawn. “If there’s anything?”

 

Most of the way asleep already, he hears himself say, “Promise.”


	26. Seams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from plumandfinch: things you said when I was crying

It was a noise so tiny that only super-hearing could have caught it: a muffled sob, coming from the tent that served as Colonel Phillips’ office in the field.

 

It wasn't exactly surprising: emotions ran high this close to the front, and Phillips had a way of making a fellow wish he'd never been born. A couple of times he’d almost made Steve cry.

 

Steve parted the flap and peeked in, to see if he could offer a word of support - and was stunned to see Peggy standing alone in the tent, a crumpled handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

 

He was pretty sure she wouldn’t want him - or anyone - to see her like this, and was making his retreat when she glanced up just in time to spot him.

 

“Oh,” she said wearily. “It’s you.”

 

He slipped into the tent, drawing the flap closed. “Everything okay?”

 

“Yes, fine,” she said, adding automatically, “Thank you.”

 

“You’re crying,” he pointed out.

 

“I’m not,” she said austerely, wiping her cheeks with the sodden hanky.

 

“Oh,” said Steve. “My mistake.”

 

He dug around in his pockets for a clean handkerchief, but he’d gotten out of the habit since he stopped catching colds; he came up with a nub of grease pencil, some twine, a packet of powdered milk, and a slightly squashed candy bar.

 

She was looking at him curiously. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose and cheeks pink.

 

He held up the candy bar. “Want to split it?”

 

“Is that how you charm your lady friends, Captain? Do you have a new pair of stockings in your other pocket?”

 

“If I did, I’d gladly share ‘em.” He unwrapped the candy bar, broke it in two, and held out the larger piece.

 

She took it delicately between two fingers. “I’m afraid half a pair wouldn’t be much use to me,” she said gravely.

 

Steve grinned. “Me either, come to think of it. I guess you could have the whole pair.”

 

She gave him a watery smile, and quietly ate her chocolate.

 

“If there’s anything I can do…” he began.

 

She flapped a dismissive hand at him, still chewing.

 

Wordlessly, he offered her the rest of the candy bar. She hesitated, then accepted, cramming the entire thing into her mouth. He wondered when she’d last eaten, whether he should offer to bring her something.

 

“I think I’d prefer lipstick instead of stockings,” she mused, around a mouthful of chocolate.

 

He nodded. “Easier to fake nylons.”

 

She raised a single, impeccably-manicured eyebrow. He felt his face start to heat up.

 

“The girls in the show used to get me to draw their seams on.”

 

“A useful skill to have, if you want to preserve your dates' reputations. You must have steady hands, then.” She glanced down at his fingers, and now he was definitely blushing.

 

He shrugged. “It’s easy when it’s not your own leg.”

 

She pivoted on her heel and asked, “What do you think of mine?”

 

“Your legs?”

 

“My seams.” It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw her hike up her skirt just a little, to the crease of her knee.

 

Steve dutifully examined the backs of her legs, even though he more or less knew them by heart already: strong, rounded calves, tapering to leaner muscle and finally to delicately-turned ankles. If he were to draw them, as he had before and almost certainly would again, it would be with a single, decisive curve.

 

“Well?”

 

“Nice and straight,” he said. “Clean lines.”

 

She grinned impishly over her shoulder. “My legs?”

 

“Your seams.” The tent was dark and quiet, giving the illusion of privacy, and Steve felt emboldened by it. “Pretty sure you already know what I think about your legs.”

 

She turned, taking a step towards him - and then they were so close, closer than they’d ever been. He felt himself tensing up, ready either to fight or to run away, even though neither option was what he wanted.

 

“Steve,” she said, in a husky voice he’d never heard her use before. It went straight to the pit of his stomach, and lower still; he blushed, convinced she could tell.

 

Then she stood on her toes and closed the distance, kissing him. It was soft, and slow, and slightly uncoordinated - a first dance. Steve kept his eyes closed, even afterwards.

 

“Thank you for the chocolate,” she murmured. He licked his lips, tasting it again, and smiled. She smiled back, her eyes darting to his lips in a way that suggested they preoccupied her.

 

Which was when Colonel Phillips blustered in, a bouquet of rolled-up maps under one arm, a cigar clamped between his teeth.

 

“Carter, I want you to - ”

 

He stopped short, taking in the scene: the pair of them, not quite touching, but standing inches away from one another. Steve was certain he was as red as an apple; Peggy looked flushed too, and a tiny bit guilty.

 

“Something you need, Rogers?”

 

Steve stepped away from Peggy, straightening up instinctively. “No, sir.”

 

“Then quit pestering Carter, she’s got work to do.” As if to illustrate, he dumped the maps into Peggy’s arms. “And wipe that damn lipstick off your face.”

 

Startled, Steve swiped at his mouth, but his fingers came away clean. Peggy rolled her eyes, exasperated, and he realized the comment had been a shot in the dark. And it had landed solidly.

 

“Uh huh,” said Phillips. “Get out of my office.”

 

“Yes, si—”

 

“Both of you.” He sat down at the folding table that served as his desk, muttering something to himself about it being a full moon.

 

“Sir?” said Peggy, uncertainly.

 

“You finish typing up those condolence letters?”

 

She nodded.

 

“Okay. Be back here at 0800. Dismissed.” 

 

Steve didn't wait to be told twice; he stepped out of the tent and into the cool of the evening, holding the flap for Peggy to follow.

 

She brushed past him without a word. He was still learning her face, in a lot of ways, but he thought she looked embarrassed, and a little annoyed. 

 

He followed her down the path, until they were out of earshot of the tent, then said, “Sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For the…” He rubbed at his lips.

 

“Oh. That’s not - look, I hope you don’t think I spend all day crying my womanly heart out over a couple of letters!”

 

“Was it just a couple?”

 

“No.”

 

“Fellows you knew?”

 

“Ones I trained.”

 

He winced. He knew that she was like him in that way; that she couldn’t help but feel she’d failed those men. “It gets to me too,” he offered.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said angrily.

 

He refrained from pointing out that she was the one who’d brought it up. “All I mean is, I don’t suppose your heart is any different than mine,” he told her quietly.

 

“I  _said_  – ”

 

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m done.”

 

Without meeting his eyes, she slipped her hand into his as they walked.

 

“Where’re we going?” he asked.

 

“I’m not sure. I hadn’t expected to have the evening free. Do you have a suggestion?”

 

The answer slipped out before he had time to think it through: “Anywhere I might get to kiss you again.”

 

“Come along, then.” She gave his hand a tug, pulling him off the path. “We’ll find a quiet spot, and you can give my seams a closer inspection.”


	27. the sound of one hand clapping (a peach)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt, taken from Texts From Last Night:
> 
> _(706): Wow just discovered I can communicate my favorite sex positions using only emojis God bless this age of technology_

**Act I**

“A peach,” said Steve. “And… an eggplant?”

“Look again,” said Natasha, and tipped him a broad wink.

“Oh. _Ohh.”_

“Gives a whole new meaning to ‘reach out and touch someone.’”

Steve frowned at the screen. “Look, I don’t know about… anyhow, she probably wouldn’t get it. She’s even worse at this than I am.”

“Give her a little credit. She’s smart. She’ll get it.”

* * *

**Act II**

“What the bloody hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Peggy turned the phone 90 degrees and squinted at it. It didn’t help. It was still a hand pointing at another hand making the okay sign. The latter appeared to be in some distress, as it was either crying or leaking.

Pepper glanced at the screen. “Oh! It’s… well. It’s something personal.”

“Oh. Yes, I see now.” Peggy put the phone back in her handbag. “The future is _ridiculous_.”

* * *

**Act III**

Steve passed his phone over to Peggy. “Seen this one yet?”

“Very clever,” she replied. “How about this?” She handed the phone back.

“Oh. You… like that?”

“Don’t you?”

“Never tried it.”

“ _Well_.”


	28. The City of New York vs. Steven G. Rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Tumblr user lunacelt: "Have you seen Spider-Man: Homecoming yet? I'm dying for a FWNL ficlet about Steve complaining to Peggy re: the PSAs"
> 
> Takes place post-Flames We Never Lit, and includes a brief mention of Peggy’s friend Charlotte.

When Steve arrives home, late one Wednesday evening, all he wants are three things: a hot shower, clean sheets, and to fall asleep with his arms around Peggy. And he’s been away long enough for the first two to be negotiable.

He drops his bag in the front hall and ventures in to find her cross-legged on the couch, laptop in her lap. She’s wearing one of his old t-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and those little sleep shorts he likes so much.

“There you are. I’d all but given you up.” She smiles, and cranes her neck up for a kiss, which he’s more than happy to provide. “I was about to go to bed, when Charlotte sent me the most marvelous thing.”

“What’s - ” He pauses, horrified, when he sees what’s on the screen: _Cap’s Fitness Challenge_.

“She told me about having to watch these in school. I didn’t believe it was _you_ , the real you, and so she found me this.”

Steve flops onto the couch next to her with a groan. “Who the hell put that on YouTube?”

“Oh, they’re all on here. You’ve become something of a cult phenomenon. They’ve even done some - what are they called… oh! Autotunes!”

“Ugh.”

“I didn’t realize you cared so much about today’s wayward youth.” She says it straight-faced, but her eyes are brimming with amusement. “Or about continuing your career as an actor.”

“You about done?”

“For the moment.” She snaps the laptop closed, setting it on the floor, then settles into the crook of his shoulder, making a pleased little noise. He curls his arm around her, savouring the weight of her body against his. It’s the one thing he misses most when he’s travelling: Peggy has never been extravagant in her displays of affection, but she seems to like sleeping curled around each other just as much as he does.

“It was after the attack on Manhattan,” he explains. “There was some security camera footage of me busting up city property, and I had to go to court. They gave me a choice between a fine and community service. I should’ve taken the fine.”

Peggy peers into his face, looking outraged. “You saved the city - the entire _world_ \- and you were _fined_ for it?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

She looks puzzled, but lets it drop, snuggling back up to him. He knows, though, that it’s not something she’ll forget in a hurry. And it’s easy enough to find out what happened, if you know enough to use Google.

“It was _after_ the attack,” he repeats. “During the rescue and recovery. There were people we just couldn’t get to in time. I lost my temper, I was tired… I kicked over a couple of parking meters. Turns out that’s called criminal mischief. I could’ve actually gotten jail time, but the judge cut me a deal.”

Peggy doesn’t say anything right away; Steve thinks maybe she’s fallen asleep. Then she lifts up and kisses him on the cheek, soft and sweet, before laying her head down again.

“I was thinking,” she says, after an interval, “that I might try Cap’s Fitness Challenge. Would you like to spot me while I do push-ups?”

He pokes her side. “Don’t be a wise guy.”

“Then afterwards, you can tell me more about my changing body.”

“Oh, you’re gonna get it now.”

“Promises, promis - ” The last syllable turns into a squeal of laughter as Steve grabs her by the hips, twisting and pinning her down against the couch cushions. “Good idea,” she says breathlessly, hooking one leg around his waist. “You do the push-ups, and I’ll cheer you on.” And then she actually winks at him, and _oh_ , how he loves this girl.

“Fair deal,” he replies.

There isn’t much talk after that.


End file.
